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February 22nd, 2025

Journal Writing

February 22nd, 2025

Spamnesia: Forgetting Why I Opened This Can

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What’s the deal with Spam? The last thing I want is unsolicited phone calls and emails from a type of canned meat. Between you and me, I’ve always believed Spam was sentient, but I never imagined it was this sentient. I mean, I’ve almost been convinced before to buy a timeshare on a deserted island. And who knows? Maybe that was Spam’s endgame all along—to lure me to a place where it’s the only food source.

But let’s be honest: if I were stranded on a deserted island and a cargo crate full of Spam washed ashore, I’d probably still hesitate to eat it. Not because I think it might taste bad, but because I refuse to eat anything that could call me in the middle of dinner and try to sell me a trial membership to Hulu. Just what I need on a deserted island—a streaming service. You’d think they’d at least offer me something useful, like a stream of fresh water. Or maybe reruns of Survivor as a twisted form of motivation.

And I wouldn’t even know how to eat Spam. I don’t want to look like some kind of spamateur. Do you need a special tool for it? A spork, maybe? I mean, a spork on a deserted island? Splease. I suppose you could pair it with something like corned beef hash, but that’s just another slippery slope into the world of canned meats. Next thing you know, you’re throwing a party with Spam, hash, and Vienna sausages and calling it a charcuterie board.

If Spam really is sentient, maybe there are other conscious canned meats out there. Holy mackerel! Maybe psychic sardines that can communicate with the other side? Connect people with their dead pet goldfish they flushed down the can? I bet those goldfish have some tales to tell—like how they swam through a tunnel to that great big golden aquarium in the sky, where they can eat their fill of those little flakes they love so much.

Come to think of it, would those Goldfish snack crackers pair well with Spam? Maybe I’m overthinking it. But if the sardines are psychic, maybe they could tell me how to make a proper Spam charcuterie. Just as long as it doesn’t come with a subscription to Spamazon Prime.

February 14th, 2025

Journal Writing

February 14th, 2025

A Valentine’s Day Dill’emma

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It’s Valentine’s Day, and love is in the air. But that got me thinking—does love have a lower density than standard dry air? I’d believe in a flying baby with a bow and arrow—I mean, babies are already airborne when the stork delivers them—but love? Love is heavy. Emotionally, at least.

And if love is in the air, does that mean I might catch cooties? That’s a real concern. What even are cooties, anyway? If you catch them, do you turn into a cutie? Because between you and me, I could really use that. I’m not saying I’m hideous, just… aesthetically challenged.

Let’s put it this way: when the stork tried to deliver me, my parents pulled the ol’ “lights off, don’t answer the door” trick. Unfortunately for them, the stork was persistent—and also weirdly passive-aggressive—so instead of flying off, it left me on the porch along with a jar of Vlasic pickles. A subtle hint that they were in for a real pickle, raising a baby as ugly as me.

They kept the pickles. They tried to return me. But, as it turns out, the Stork Delivery Service has a strict no-return policy. If not for that fine print, who knows where I’d be today? Probably shipped off to a different address, like a misdelivered Amazon package.

Reluctantly, they kept me, hoping I’d grow out of my baby uglies. I never did—but at least I plateaued instead of escalating the situation. Back in elementary school, Valentine’s Day wasn’t exactly my time to shine. Even when the teacher forced kids to hand out cards, I swear I saw some of them sneak past my desk like they were avoiding a landmine.

But it’s all good now. Because somehow, against all odds, I have the sweetest Valentine ever—someone who actually welcomes my… unconventional looks. And sure, I may not be one of the “beautiful people,” but I do write beautiful poetry.

Which should help keep the storks in business for a long time.

Hopefully, though, they’ve learned their lesson. No more surprise deliveries of ugly baby boy bombs on unsuspecting porches. Vlasic pickles may be dill’licious, but they’re not so delicious that new parents should need Lasik after laying eyes on their little bundle of joy. Maybe it’s time for the stork to start being a little more… kosher.

February 6th, 2025

Journal Writing

February 6th, 2025

Karaoke Catastrophes and Operatic Evictions

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The Grammy Awards were on Sunday, and a lot of talented singers walked away with those shiny trophies. Naturally, this got me thinking: whatever happened to singing telegrams? I’ve always wanted one, but the closest I ever got was Alfred, the alley cat, screeching the worst rendition of “What’s New Pussycat?” I’ve ever heard.

Alfred’s musical escapades weren’t limited to “What’s New Pussycat?” Last week, he attempted a jazzy version of “My Way” that made me wish I’d gone deaf. Frank Sinatra is probably rolling in his grave. Let’s just say Alfred won’t be winning a Grammy anytime soon.

But really—wouldn’t a singing telegram be fantastic? Imagine someone belting out opera at your doorstep to announce you’re being evicted. If you’re going to get bad news, why not get it with a dramatic high C, right?

Think of the possibilities: birthday greetings sung to the tune of “Danny Boy,” wedding invitations delivered in Billy Idol’s “White Wedding” style, or break-up letters performed to “Celebration” by Kool & The Gang. Or even better, imagine a speeding ticket citation delivered to the tune of “Don’t Stop Believin’.” Spoiler: you really should have stopped. It would turn life’s awkward moments into musical events!

And what about a jury duty summons delivered as a singing telegram?

You’ve been called for jury duty, so grab your coat. Stop.
It’s mandatory—so yes, you have to go. Stop.
The trial may take a week or maybe more. Stop.
Failure to show means fines galore. Stop.
Questions? Drop the commissioner a line. Stop.
But don’t forget—justice runs on time! Stop.

With emails, e-cards, and video calls everywhere, some people might ask, “Do we really need singing telegrams?” I say yes! They add a unique, personal touch to communication, which is exactly why I think robots should deliver them.

Because nothing says “personal touch” like a gigantic android with LED eyes, a bow tie programmed to spin, and a malfunctioning vocal processor that turns “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” into a techno remix no one asked for. That’s the kind of warm, human connection we all crave, right?

Still, even that would be less terrifying than karaoke night with Alfred the alley cat. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Alfred were a retired animatronic from Five Nights at Freddy’s. Maybe that’s where all the tone-deaf singing telegram prototypes ended up—haunting unsuspecting night guards instead of my front porch.

But one thing’s for sure: if life’s surprises are going to ambush me, I want them to come with a melody—and definitely not from a feline auditioning for America’s Got No Talent, the version where even the judges beg for earplugs.

February 1st, 2025

Journal Writing

February 1st, 2025

Astronaught to Be: A Space Odyssey Gone Wrong

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Sometimes, life feels like someone’s about to yank the rug out from under me. You really don’t want that happening if you’re Aladdin, mid-magic-carpet ride—or if you’re like me, dreaming of being an astronaut and floating among the stars. I even imagined having a mischievous, well-meaning genie like in I Dream of Jeannie to help me navigate cosmic adventures. Because what could go wrong when magic is involved?

Unfortunately, my closest brush with space travel was visiting Cape Canaveral—and the only genie magic I experienced was Dijon mustard mysteriously landing on my shirt, courtesy of a prankster Djinn who thought condiments were comedy gold. Or yellow.

I had just about given up on my dream when I walked into a local antique shop and spotted a lava lamp straight out of the 1960s. It reminded me of David Bowie’s Aladdin Sane album cover—something about the lightning bolt and spacey vibes seemed like a cosmic sign. Inspired, I bought the lamp, along with a groovy shag rug that looked like it had survived Woodstock. I figured if Bowie could reinvent himself as a space-faring rock god, then maybe a little retro magic could help me channel the right vibes too.

I feng shui’d the whole place (is that even still a thing?), dimmed the lights, and admired my mid-century aesthetic. If Christina Aguilera ever wanted to drop by and sing “Genie in a Bottle,” I had the perfect setup.

The lava lamp looked a little dingy, though, so I gave it a wipe. No genie appeared. No Christina Aguilera either. I figured, hey, maybe I needed a nap to properly manifest my cosmic destiny. I dozed off on the shag rug, dreaming of rocket launches, stardust, and genie lamps, until I was jolted awake by a loud rumbling beneath me.

For a split second, I thought my retro decor had worked—that the rug was lifting off like a rocket booster beneath me, propelling me into orbit. I was ready to yell, “Mission Control, we have liftoff!” But as reality set in, I realized it was just the old radiator shaking like it was trying to break free of its earthly bounds. In my half-asleep state, I stumbled to my feet, tripping over the shag rug in an unholy mashup of The Twist and slapstick choreography.

I flailed, knocking the lava lamp to the floor, where it began to bubble and make my living room look more like the surface of the sun or Jupiter’s volcanic moon, Io. At this point, I figured the genie had seriously misread the itinerary. I had signed up for an expedition to our moon, not a one-way ticket to inhospitable destinations.

When the chaos finally settled, I lay sprawled on the shag rug, staring at the ceiling like a failed astronaut who missed their flight. My dreams of space exploration were officially grounded, but at least I’d learned one thing: if you can’t fly to the moon, you can always just cut a rug instead and try to do Michael Jackson’s moonwalk. Just be careful not to moonwalk your way into another lava lamp fiasco.

A Story Half-Told

Poetry Writing

A Story Half-Told

By

The trees are out on the curb, bare and forgotten,
Christmas packed away in leftover boxes,
January bares its teeth, and the cold sinks in,
Leaving only memories to warm my heart again.

Tinsel and stockings, stuffed out of sight,
Lights unplugged beneath snow’s heavy white.
The ‘Silent Night’ fades, its echo grown still,
Saint Nick retreats from the bitter chill.

People go back to their busy, indifferent lives,
Shoving returns across counters, no joy in their eyes.
And me, I’m just sitting here, lost in the space,
Where joy once lingered, now an empty place.

Your laughter danced through the pine-scented air,
A gift of which no other could compare.
Christmas now feels like a story half-told,
Adrift in a season grown hollow and cold.

January 22nd, 2025

Journal Writing

January 22nd, 2025

Cock-a-Doodle-Doom or A Stroke of Cluck

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Last weekend, I decided to make breakfast burritos for my girlfriend and me—because honestly, who doesn’t love cramming breakfast, lunch, and dinner into one convenient wrap? Think of all the time you save knocking out three square meals at once. Although, come to think of it, can we even call them “square meals”? Shouldn’t they be “triangle meals” since triangles have three sides? And while we’re at it, what kind of triangle are we talking about here? Isosceles? Right triangle? Because no balanced meal plan is complete without a little trigonometry.

But I’ve gone off on a tangent—how fitting, given all this geometry talk. Enough with the mathematics—that’s for eggheads. Anyway, burritos don’t make themselves, so back to the kitchen.

So, there I was, cracking eggs like a professional chef (or at least someone who binge-watches cooking shows), when I hit a plot twist: one egg had two yolks inside. That’s right—TWO yolks. No yolk, I couldn’t believe it. My girlfriend thought maybe they were twins. This got me thinking about Chicken Little’s evil twin, Chicken Big—a fowl so foul, he’s even turned Popeyes into Wimpys, and now they’re serving hamburgers instead.

Naturally, this raised some serious questions. Did this mean Chicken Big was recruiting an army of henchmen, two yolks at a time? And should we be worried about bird flu? Because let’s be real, chicken noodle soup isn’t exactly a cure-all for an outbreak of villainous birds with a feverish thirst for power.

A quick internet search told me that double-yolk eggs are uncommon but totally harmless. Apparently, young hens sometimes get a little overexcited and release two yolks at once. It’s considered good luck—like finding a four-leaf clover, except gooier and with more cholesterol. If I were really lucky, though, I’d have cracked open an egg laid by the goose from that old fairy tale—the one with the golden eggs. Just imagine: a gold yolk, cooked into the world’s fanciest omelet, served on fine china with truffle shavings and diamonds for garnish.

Still, to avoid tempting fate—or Chicken Big—we decided not to use the double yolk. Breakfast was still egg-celent, even without golden omelets or trigonometry on the side. If you want the recipe, it’s all scribbled in my finest chicken scratch—no protractor required.

January 14th, 2025

Journal Writing

January 14th, 2025

Purrjury, Piano Scams, and Other Feline Felonies

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They say you should let sleeping dogs lie. In my experience, the same applies to cats. Wake a cat in the middle of their cat nap, and you’ll find out exactly why they call it a catfight. The claws come out faster than you can say “Meow Mix,” and before you know it, you might end up with cat scratch fever—not just a Ted Nugent song, by the way, but an actual medical condition. I Googled it. You wake up with that, and suddenly you look like something the cat dragged in… twice. Next thing you know, you’re coughing up hairballs that could pass as members of an 80s hair metal band—spandex, sleeveless denim, and boots so tall they’d make a giraffe jealous.

And don’t laugh—cat scratch fever is no joke. In rare cases, it can even be fatal. Imagine the headlines: Local Feline Felon Sentenced to Nine Life Terms After Owner’s Untimely Demise. Fluffy would be pacing her tiny cell, scratching tally marks into the wall with one claw, while the guard dogs kept a close eye on her every move. You just know she’d use her one phone call to order a tuna casserole instead of a lawyer. Honestly, it’s hard to say who’d have it worse—you for disturbing her royal slumber, or the dogs stuck guarding a four-pawed mastermind plotting her jailbreak with a feather wand and a ball of yarn.

Speaking of which, I’ve never known a dog to lie—especially a sleeping one. Dogs are refreshingly honest. They twitch their paws in dreams, probably chasing squirrels, mailmen, or their next big belly rub. They wear their hearts on their fur, and you always know where you stand with them: they want to love you, protect you, and maybe eat your snacks. Their dreams are pure, and so are they.

Cats, though? Cats are compulsive liars. Case in point: Garfield and Heathcliff. You cannot convince me they’re not the same cat. Both love food, cause mischief, and somehow their names both end in landscape features. Coincidence? I think not. And then there’s Top Cat. Top of what exactly? A Ponzi scheme? My list of reliable animals? Let’s not forget his get-rich-quick scams—selling fake tuna futures and pawning counterfeit flea collars. He’s the feline Bernie Madoff, and we all know it.

And honestly, can we even trust cats in court? The word “purr” is right there in perjury, as if they’re not even trying to hide it. Meanwhile, dogs? Dogs will look you in the eye with absolute honesty, even if they just ate your entire dinner off the counter.

And don’t even start with Keyboard Cat. Do you seriously believe he was playing that keyboard? A Saint Bernard channeling Beethoven? Sure, I’d buy it. But a cat? Please. And Kit Kat? “Give me a break”? I’ve been eating those for years, and the only thing breaking is my scale. If cats are running that marketing campaign, they might just be the most cunning masterminds in history.

So yeah, let sleeping dogs lie. They’re not out here scamming you with fake tuna or starring in sham piano recitals. Cats? Between the counterfeit flea collars and perjury, I wouldn’t even trust them to lie still.

January 10th, 2025

Journal Writing

January 10th, 2025

From Pinky to Piggy: A Digit Dilemma

By

Lately, I’ve been wondering why my little finger is called a pinky. The name makes it sound less like a body part and more like a hyperactive lab mouse whose sole mission is to sabotage a genius mouse’s elaborate schemes for world domination. And honestly, at this point, I can’t help but feel for Brain. The poor guy comes up with these grand, world-changing plans, only for Pinky to lose his marbles—literally and figuratively—like that one piece in Mouse Trap that always sets off the trap at the wrong time. Maybe it’s time Brain rethinks his approach. Go through official channels, run a campaign, kiss a few babies. I’d vote for Brain—he’d bring some much-needed structure to this rat race. Plus, I’m sure he’d mandate cheese Fridays, and who wouldn’t want that?

But back to the pinky. It also sounds like that one ghost in Pac-Man who’s always ruining your vibe. I’ve lost track of how many lives Pinky and her spectral crew have cost me, and I think we can all agree that being chased through an endless neon maze for a handful of cherries is not the mental health break it once was. At this point, Pac-Man probably needs therapy more than a power pellet.

Then there’s Pinky, the leather-jacketed biker chick who cruised around in the ’50s with her gang, the Pinkettes. I mean, she had The Fonz—The Fonz!—so smitten he almost proposed. She had him wrapped around her little finger… you know, the pinky.

All this has got me thinking: why stop at naming just one finger? If we’re giving our fingers colorful names, why not paint the whole picture? After all, the pinky’s not the only one that deserves a splash of personality. And hey, wouldn’t naming your fingers make fingerpainting a little more literal? Take the index finger, for example. We could call it Bluey, because who doesn’t love that wholesome little cartoon dog? Although I can’t quite put my finger on why the show makes me want to sob and laugh simultaneously.

The ring finger? Obviously Goldie, because that’s where people wear their gold wedding bands. And just like Goldilocks, it’s all about finding the perfect fit—because nothing says “happily ever after” like a ring that’s not too tight, not too loose, but just right.

And the middle finger? Let’s call it Rosie—because wouldn’t the world be a much rosier place if no one ever used that finger for “expressive purposes”?

This train of thought naturally led me to my toes. They deserve names too, but I’m not about to go full “Lord of the Toes” here. If I did, though, they’d probably all be called Piggy, because let’s face it: “This little piggy” has been branding them since day one.

So, yeah, my pinky has sent me spiraling into a full existential crisis about why we haven’t renamed all our extremities. But I’ll just leave you with this: the next time someone says, “I pinky swear,” remember that somewhere out there, a little mouse is plotting world domination, and we’re all just along for the ride.

True North

Poetry Writing

True North

By

As the bluejay of day perches beside blackbird night,
Our two hearts hammer, yet the world stays quiet.
If the moon falls silent, wrapped in twilit shroud,
Even our whispers seem piercingly loud.
When the bear constellations retreat into sleep,
A grey wolf haze stalks the woods, dark and deep.
The valley gleams with frost, yet your arms give me warmth.
You are my compass, my true love, my true north.